I sat at the table, trying to read the face of the bank manager seated opposite me as he spoke on the phone. What was his mood like? He seemed alright. There were no telltale signs of tension that I could spot. I was apprehensive because the purpose of my visit was unusual. I had a question to ask him about his bank that had nothing to do with banking. I had entered his room tentatively, had smiled my greeting, had been invited to take a seat. And here I was.

He put down the phone and looked at me inquiringly. I cleared my throat and arranged my face into what I hoped was a disarming smile. "Err … I've come to ask about a plant growing in your compound." He looked at me quizzically. "It has bright orange flowers. Would you happen to know its name?" He took it well. "Hmmm … some plants were sent over by the regional office for the inauguration. I will have to check with them. But let me see which plant you're talking about." He rose (pun unintended!) from his chair, and I accompanied him outside. The plant had grown over the wall, and the branches peeped out into the street. They were studded with brightly colored orange flowers that looked strangely artificial, as though a skilled craftsman had fashioned them out of wax. The manager took in the scene for a full minute. Finally, he said "I will write to the office and ask them. Give me a couple of weeks. " I thanked him and left, happy.

To identify plants and trees, I have several resources that usually get the job done: Kehimkar'sCommon Indian Wild Flowers, Karthikeyan'sDiscover Avenue Trees, and Srinivasa'sDiscover Garden Climbers. There is the wonderful Flowers of India website, where one can browse flowers by color. There is Google Search by Image. There are nature forums where one can post a photo and request an identification. And last but not least, there are knowledgeable friends to consult. I'm never in a hurry. There is pleasure in lingering over the problem, and I enjoy the thrill of the chase. In this case, for my orange flower, Google Search by Image turned up the name of a variety of rose. It looked similar, but I needed confirmation. Hence, the visit to the bank.

A few days later, at a family gathering, I met a horticulturist. This was too good an opportunity to miss. I pulled out my phone and showed her the orange flower. "Oh, that's a cactus flower," she said. A cactus? Those spiny plants that grow in the desert? I couldn't think of a less likely candidate. My plant looked nothing like a cactus; it was a right proper shrub, luxuriant, with spreading branches bearing leaves and flowers. "Isn't it a rose?" I asked.

"A rose?? Does it look like a rose? Did you notice the leaves? That's not a rose. It's a cactus flower. I don't remember the name. Give me a few minutes." She reached for her phone, and a little later, I had my identification: Rose Cactus (Pereskia bleo). "So, thereis a rose in the name," I observed. She was not amused.

Later, I examined the shrub more closely and saw spines on the thick, dark green branches. They were more blunt projections, bony knobs, than true spines and were easy to miss from a distance. A strange plant, this. It was a cactus alright, but it certainly didn't look like one. I learned that it is one of the oldest cactus species, which is why it has true leaves. In later cactus species, the leaves became modified to spines. The home of the Rose Cactus is not the desert but the jungles of Central America, and I could imagine a brilliantly plumaged bird perched on its branches.

Two weeks later, I dropped in at the bank. I had my identification, but I was curious about what the bank manager might have found. As before, he was alone in his room, talking on the phone. I entered and tried to catch his eye. He was frowning as he spoke, looking out of the window. It seemed to be a tense conversation. I began to back out of the room, when he put the phone down and noticed me. For a moment he looked at me blankly. "Ah!" he said. "I wrote to them, but there was no reply." He turned to a letter lying on the table. The frown reappeared on his face. I hesitated. Should I tell him what I had discovered? He had picked up a pen and was writing rapidly.

I turned around and left the room, a little sad — for he would never know the name of the rose.

Where to see it: (1) Rama Varma club, near the entrance. This specimen is in its prime. (2) Maharaja's Stadium, M.G. Road entrance, near the metro station. Enter and turn right. You will see several juvenile plants.

I spotted this flower hanging over the wall of a house on T.D. Road. It's common names are Hanging Lobster Claw and False Bird of Paradise, and its scientific name is Heliconia rostrata. I had no idea what it was called when I saw it, but I felt then that colors like these belonged to the Amazon. Indeed, the plant is a native of South America, and is one of the two national flowers of Bolivia.

I identified this flower using Reverse Google Image Search. It doesn't always work, but this time it was on target, giving me "heliconia" in the search box after it had finished, with matching images displayed below.

"Come," she said, "I'll show you a plant that's a butterfly magnet." The path led us away from the well-tended garden in front of the house to the unkempt mass of greenery outside. She came to a halt in front of a tall plant I was seeing for the first time. It was around 8 feet high, crowned by pyramidal clusters of small bright orange flowers. "We call this Krishna kireedam," she said.

This was a resort in Vagamon. The owners, an elderly couple, had been amused by my diligent stalking of butterflies to photograph them, and hence this introduction to the "butterfly magnet."

Thus it was that two cuttings of the plant were taken back to Cochin. The plant is not demanding; it doesn't ask for anything other than what is available in the soil and the air. The first flowering occurred in a few months and was followed by many others. The plant propagates itself vegetatively by suckers, so it wasn't long before the original plants were surrounded by their progeny, brightening up a drab corner of the front yard with splashes of color.

The striking, unusual geometrical arrangement of the flowers is what gives the plant its name. The pagoda flower is all straight lines and sharp angles, an unabashedly male, rectilinear design that is unusual for flowers. The bright orange color catches the eye, and the large dark-green leaves are the perfect foil for the flowers.

The bird perched on the flower is a male purple-rumped sunbird, a tiny hummingbird-sized bird found only in the Indian subcontinent. The purple patch on the rump is visible only at certain angles when the light is right. The female is dowdy in comparison. Years ago, a couple used to frequent the yard and had even built a nest on a branch overlooking the passage to the road. They then disappeared, so I was happy to spot this bird in my yard again.

And what of the butterflies? The pagoda flower is the favorite plant of the Swallowtails, but the city is not a welcoming environment for butterflies. Still, I have seen them around on occasion. Intrepid explorers, after all, are not the monopoly of any one species. I believe they will come.

Yes, come they will, the butterflies. The glad tidings will spread by word of wing — and the fluttering gopis will yet find their way to my Krishna kireedam.

I was hurrying to the bank after a critical online transaction failed unexpectedly, and my mind was full of the upcoming meeting with the bank manager. A splash of color on my right – a fence festooned with wreaths of flowers beautiful enough to decorate a wedding stage – caught my eye. Intrigued, I paused.

Time was of the essence, and this was not the moment to stand and stare. The voice of reason said insistently: "Move on, move on, you have important business to attend to. You can always come back another day and take a look." The heart won over reason, and I walked over to the fence.

It was an unfamiliar vine, planted in a garden on the other side of the fence. It had climbed over the fence, and the flowers dangled over it in a riot of scarlet, pink, and white. Glossy dark green leaves peeked through the slats of the fence. Climbers, like us, are transgressive by instinct, forever pushing boundaries. I moved forward, took a quick photo with my phone, and resumed my mission.

The next time I passed that spot, a couple of weeks later, all I saw was a bare fence. There was no sign of the vine. It was as though it had never existed.